


Dead Men Don’t Sleep

by TheCourier



Series: to feel alive [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bisexual Jon Snow, Biting, Blood Kink, Canonical Character Death, Established Relationship, Hair-pulling, I will not have Robb Stark disrespected in my own home, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jon came back not quite right, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-15 13:05:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15413553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCourier/pseuds/TheCourier
Summary: Jon doesn’t sleep anymore and keeps wandering off. Tormund worries.





	1. Tombs and Ghosts

His Crow was different, there was no denying that. And yet, Tormund couldn’t bring himself to care very much. Yes, he seemed to have lost most of his self-preservation instincts – of which he didn’t have all that many to begin with – and yes, he seemed to drift off at times, but when it _mattered_ , he was still undeniably Jon Snow. Anything else, he could learn to live with.

And he wasn’t complaining that he seemed to like their sex to be a bit rougher, too. Jon had enjoyed having his hair pulled before, which was great, because Tormund _loved_ pulling his hair, but it seemed to go deeper now. There was more of a neediness to it than before.

However, something that Tormund certainly didn't enjoy was that Jon now seemed to be up at all hours of the night, not only leaving an empty space in their bed, which Tormund was against, just as a rule, no, he also kept wandering the halls by himself. Along with that came two more problems. First, he didn’t do it dressed nearly warmly enough because being brought back from the dead by a fire god apparently meant that you couldn’t feel the biting cold anymore, which meant that he had to get up and go find him. Second, Tormund always got lost doing so. This place was just too fucking big.

Back when they had taken Winterfell, Jon had shown him around so he could find his way but Tormund had preferred to stay in camp outside with the other Free Folk and so hadn’t seen the necessity to pay too much attention. Now that he spent considerably more time here - mostly to make sure Jon didn’t freeze his bollocks off on one of his night trips - he had come to realise that tracking game (and Crows) through leagues of snow was a very different skill than navigating a gigantic southern castle.

He was still muttering angrily, to himself, at the world, cursing Jon, when he almost bumped into a cloaked figure.

“Good evening, Tormund,” Sansa greeted politely, as though this was an entirely normal situation for her.

“Bit late for a stroll, isn’t it?” he replied, before he could think of something else.

She seemed to draw herself up taller. “I’m the Lady of Winterfell, I can go where and when I please. The same cannot be said for a wildling who chose a tent outside the castle’s walls instead of the room offered to him.” Tormund didn’t understand how she wielded words like knives but it impressed him all the same. It required so much more patience than just cleaving a man’s skull in half and be done with it.

He carefully considered his words, before deciding on the truth. Most of it, anyway. If she knew, she knew and if she didn’t, she wasn’t as smart as he thought she was. “I’m certain you know why I'm here. And I’m also certain you know that I’ve been staying here most nights.”

“True. Don't tell Jon I know, though. He thinks he’s so clever, sneaking around with you.” She actually rolled her eyes, just a little, showing her youth in a way she so rarely allowed herself to.

“He thinks you’d judge. Why you would, I don’t know. I don’t understand you Southerners most days.”

She drew in a breath, opened her mouth to reply, but then seemed to reconsider. “I understand what it’s like.” She looked a bit deflated, then added, “Are you looking for him?”

Tormund nodded. “He doesn’t sleep much anymore.”

Sansa gestured towards the furs he was carrying. “And you’re worried he's cold? Do _I_ need to worry that he’s going to do something stupid?”

“I wouldn’t say stupid. Not anymore, at least. Reckless, maybe. Whatever the Red Woman did to him, he’s different. Still himself, but … detached. He seems to be more dull. Not boring or stupid,” he hastened to add, “dull to the world itself. Doesn’t seem to feel cold. Or heat, for that matter. I’m more worried about the cold, though.”

Sansa nodded, looking thoughtful. “Should I help you look?”

“No, thank you. Just. Do you have any idea where he might be? I already checked the ramparts, I often find him there, that idiot. Not tonight though.”

“Try the stables or the forge. He used to spend a lot of time there when we were younger. Maybe the baths. They were one of the few places reserved for family that Father overruled Mother.” She bit her lower lip.

Tormund guessed there was more to that, but he didn’t want to press that particular issue. “Jon told me you weren’t close as children.”

“That’s a nice way to put it. I treated him horribly.”

“Yet you still know where he spent his time.”

“He was still my brother.”

“Maybe you’re being too hard on yourself.”

“I’m not, but thank you. If you can’t find him by yourself, please come to my chambers. I’ll be up for at least another hour and I don’t want him to freeze either.”

“I would say I will but I have a hard time finding my way in this place.”

“Not a lot of castles where you’re from?” She smiled.

Tormund cracked a wan smile at the effort. He didn't think she’d have it in her to joke. “Not a lot of _houses_ where I’m from.”

She explained the way in the least confusing way she could and bid him good night. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to find his way there but he wouldn’t give up looking for Jon anyway.

 

He found Jon in the crypt. He was staring at one of the stone coffins they put their dead in, here. He could see his breath, and, as he suspected, he was wearing anything but a thin shirt and that wolf’s breastplate he wore most of the time these days. Prepared for an attack, but not for the cold. It worried him, this paranoia, when the cold could just as well kill him as a knife would.

“You’re allowed to brood, I doubt I’d get that out of you, but you’re not allowed to freeze while brooding,” Tormund said by way of greeting. He draped the furs around Jon's shoulders before taking his hand to confirm he was, in fact, too cold to the touch. He pulled him into his arms. Jon did protest, but only feebly.

“What are you doing down here?” Jon asked. He didn’t look at him but didn’t pull away either. He also didn’t seem angry. Tormund took that as a win.

“I lost my favourite axe, thought I’d check the most disturbing place I could think of. Interesting to just bump into you here. What do you _think_ I’m doing down here? If I’d wanted to spend the night alone, I could have stayed in camp. Your bed is too soft anyway.”

That did provoke a bitter laugh. “That mattress isn't even as soft as any of my _noble_ siblings’ were. But I do get your point, I can’t sleep on it anymore either.”

“Because you don't sleep anymore, period, you idiot.”

Jon shrugged. “I sleep.”

“Yeah, after you’re all tuckered out from fucking. I’m an old man, I can’t very well fuck you to sleep every single night.”

“And yet you keep doing it.” A smug smile played around this lips.

“Not doing it properly, it seems, or we wouldn’t be here in the middle of the godsdamned night.” He looked at the coffin Jon had been staring at. This one didn’t have a statue on it, like some of the others did. “Who’s this then and why are they so important you had to go see them _now_?”

“My brother, Robb. He became Lord of Winterfell after Father was executed. He went South - no, no smart comment, please - to war, to get revenge. The whole North went with him. They crowned him King in the North down there and then he never saw it again.” Jon looked up at him. “The coffin is empty.”

It was clear from the look on his face, a hard line right across his brow, that he didn’t seem to want to divulge the reason for that, so Tormund focused on something else. “Why doesn’t he have a statue?”

“Sansa commissioned one made for him, but looking at Father…” He pointed with his chin to the coffin next to this one. This one had a statue, one of a middle-aged, tired-looking man. “It doesn’t look too much like him. And what’s the point if he isn’t even here?” His hands curled into fists.

“You tell me. You came here in the middle of the night after all.”

“It’s just… It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Robb was supposed to rule, have a bunch of highborn children and raise them to become lords and ladies after him and I was supposed to fade into obscurity at the Wall. And now he’s dead and his body is gods know where, after having gods know what done to him and I…” He looked up at him again, and his face was murderous. He probably would have punched something if he weren’t related to everything down here.

“Dead at the Wall and now you’re back here, alive again. If everything went the way it’s supposed to go, none of us would be here. We would have massacred you all, you and your _thousand Crows_.” The sarcasm was dripping. “You would be dead, along with Ygritte, and no red woman and her lord of fire to bring you back. Your brother would still be dead and your sister would have been raped and killed and then probably raped again after by that monster in human skin. There’s a reason things don’t turn out the way they’re _supposed_ to.”

Jon gave him a wan smile. “Who gave you permission to be so godsdamned smart?”

“Not everyone can be just a pretty face, Snow. Some of us have to work for it.” Tormund cracked a smile and pulled him close again, tucking Jon’s head beneath his chin. Not everything could be fixed with a short conversation, but he seemed to have alleviated most of tonight’s brooding. “Let’s go back to bed. This place gives me shivers. It’s not right, keeping your dead under your house.”

Jon looked up and gave him a peck on the lips. “Alright.”

They left the crypt, Tormund’s arm around Jon’s shoulder. _He_ wasn’t forgetting that this so-called king in this so-called North was still too bloody cold. Which brought him to another thought.

“Also, your sister mentioned baths that I’d like to see.”

Jon stopped in his tracks and looked at him, horrified. “When did you talk to Sansa? Alone?”

“I ran into her while I was looking for you. She mentioned something about family places you weren’t allowed into and that’s the reason why you liked the baths or something.”

“You… did you _tell_ her?” He gestured between them, actually stepping back. All blood seemed to have left his face all of a sudden.

“No, I didn’t. Honestly, you _just_ called me smart. And your sister is a smart woman. She knows. Also, she asked me not to tell you that she knew, so.” He shrugged. Honestly, these Southerners and their weird customs and what is proper and what is not would be the death of him.

Jon dragged his hands across his face in desperation. “Unbelievable.”

“Now, how about those baths? You’re still too bloody cold and you won’t sleep anyway.”

Tormund grinned. Jon sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got a bit away from me, I wasn't really expecting PLOT to happen, thus, two chapters.  
> This will earn its rating in the second one, I promise!


	2. Restless Minds, Restless Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has unhealthy coping mechanisms, Tormund is conflicted and doesn't know how to help. He still tries his best, despite Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went in a very different direction than initally planned.  
> I hope you'll still enjoy it! :)

In hindsight, the baths hadn’t been the best of his ideas. The hot springs honoured their name, yes, and taking a long, hot bath had been fucking fantastic. What he hadn’t anticipated was that the ground would be slippery – so not the best surface to do anything except get from one point to the next – and while the hot springs had been carved into being baths for people to sit in, the benches weren’t nearly big enough to find proper purchase when you had a lapful of squirming Crow to contend with.

It hadn’t helped that said lapful of squirming Crow had turned into a mess from one moment to the next. One second, he was enthusiastically kissing his way down his neck to his chest, one hand slowly teasing the area around his cock, the next he went completely rigid, eyes blank, staring through him.

Tormund had immediately ceased all action when that had happened because that clearly wasn’t a good sign.

When he’d asked what was wrong, Jon had just shaken his head. “I don’t want to talk about it now. Let’s just … wash and get back to my chambers. I’ll be fine by then.”

Tormund knew this wasn’t healthy but was at a loss what to do. Making sure that Jon was physically fine was one thing, he could do that, he _had_ been doing that, had been managing, but he wasn’t prepared to deal with his mental well-being by himself. He decided to ask around camp for help, maybe talk to this maester, although he didn’t really want to put his trust in a man who had served Jon’s enemies before. Jon and his sister could say what they wanted about maesters having to remain neutral, he didn’t trust him.

The walk back to Jon’s chambers was a long one, but thankfully didn’t lead through the courtyard, so the hot bath wasn’t completely wasted. Tormund had wanted to pull Jon close for practical as well as comforting reasons, but didn’t want to press his luck on whatever it was that had happened in the baths. Instead, he opted to stay close without touching Jon. He would wait for him to come to him. It was a while after they had left the baths when Jon’s hand found his. “Thank you,” he said, quietly.

“I’m here,” Tormund reassured him and squeezed his hand.

When they finally reached Jon’s chambers – after what felt like an eternity – Jon sank down on his bed, took off the outermost layer of his clothes, and beckoned Tormund to join him.

Hesitantly, he stepped closer. He didn’t like this at all, but Jon’s hand immediately tightly gripped his arse, fingers digging in. His mouth was on his cock, mouthing him through his breeches, while his other hand tried to simultaneously find its way into his breeches. He wasn’t very successful.

“What’s wrong?” Jon asked, a whining noise in the back of his throat, when, despite his enthusiastic administrations, nothing happened. He leaned back to look accusingly at Tormund, who in turn cocked an eyebrow and looked down at Jon for a long while. He had settled his hand on Jon’s head, twining his fingers through his black curls out of sheer habit and once he noticed, pulled it back. Great. Now he didn’t know what to do with his hand, so he just let it awkwardly hang by his own side. Jon started looking uncomfortable, before Tormund replied, “Say what you want, but I see you starting to lose it and staring through me _not_ getting me hot and bothered immediately after as a good thing.”

“I’m fine.” He must have sounded unconvincing to his own ears because he didn’t even try to add anything.

Tormund remained unconvinced. “Don’t lie to me. I deserve better than that.”

Jon sighed and slumped down on the bed. “The first time I was with Ygritte was in a cave with a waterfall. When she died, she said that we should have stayed in that cave. I just … remembered. I’m fine now.”

Tormund sat down next to him, shifting his weight towards Jon, so his shoulder bumped against Jon’s. He didn’t seek any further contact. “You’re the opposite of fine, but I won’t be able to get that into your thick skull tonight.”

“So now you know. Now can we get on with it?”

“No.” Tormund stared at him.

Jon stared back, as though _he_ was the one being unreasonable. “Why not?”

“Because your head is all messed up and I’m not going to take advantage of that. I’ll stay here tonight, and we’ll see about the rest tomorrow morning.”

“It’s not taking advantage if I want it,” Jon insisted.

“You don’t know any better and that worries me.”

“You didn’t have a problem ‘taking advantage’” when I’d just come back and was all messed up in the head,” Jon practically spat at him.

“It wasn’t my finest moment, I’ll admit. I was all messed up in the head, too. You were dead for two days, and then you weren’t. We both made decisions that weren’t particularly … healthy.”

Jon’s look mellowed, if not into acceptance, at least he didn’t look too angry anymore. Just sort of … annoyed. He sighed, then climbed into bed. “Might as well try to sleep then. You coming?”

Tormund really debated with himself for a minute before deciding that making sure he would at least get some sleep was only responsible. Neither of them slept well on their own anymore, for at least related, if not similar reasons. He slipped in next to Jon, pulling at least two blankets and some furs over his lover, as well. He put his arm around his chest, carefully avoiding Jon’s scarred area. He still didn’t like being touched where he had been stabbed by his own men. The trick was to hold him without seeming too worried about him and without making it seem like cuddling, when that was obviously what it was.

It took a long while for Jon’s breathing to fall into a steady rhythm, but Tormund waited to make sure he was asleep nonetheless. He always worried that if he fell asleep first, Jon would just get up again.

 

When Tormund woke, it was to Jon propped up on his side, just looking at him. His eyes looked clear and the hungry intensity of them almost scared him a little, as if he had been waiting to pounce. He also proved to be the least sensible person he knew, again, by not being covered by a blanket yet again.

“Do we have to talk about warmth again?” Tormund growled, while pulling the closest one over Jon.

“I favour the ‘sharing body heat’ school of thought myself.” And with that, Jon was on him, making no effort to disprove his “waiting to pounce” theory. He settled onto his stomach, properly sitting down.

Tormund really did make an effort to pull the blanket over Jon again, but that stubborn son of a goat was doing his damnedest to freeze to death. Why did he even bother? Against his better judgement, he pulled Jon down, his hands already tangling in his curls. “Just so you know, I still don’t think this is healthy.” His words were already betrayed by his action before he had even spoken them.

Jon grinned at him. He was so close he could feel his breath on his own face. Honestly, he lived for these rare moments when Jon smiled at him or laughed. Or really, had any expression on his face that wasn’t a scowl or grim determination. He could pretend everything would be alright, that the world wasn’t ending, when Jon looked at him like that. And he knew that he was in trouble, he _knew_ that he wouldn’t be able to resist again, even if maybe he should. Probably he should.

Jon closed the distance between them and kissed him, hard. His hands were spread against Tormund’s chest, carelessly tracing some of his scars. Tormund’s skin started prickling. He grinned, despite himself, against his mouth. “Eager, are we, pretty Crow?” In reply, Jon sucked Tormund’s lower lip into his own mouth, and bit down. Always with the biting. Truly a wolf. The next thing Tormund tasted was blood. They would have words about that later. At present, he was distracted by Jon’s cock pressing into his abdomen. Jon grinned and before Tormund knew what was happening, Jon’s hand was in his hair, the other next to his head, elbow supporting his weight. Warm mouth on his throat, eagerly licking and kissing his way down.

Jon’s mouth was on his chest in no time, tongue flitting out against his nipple. A hot flush went up there and further down, then he felt teeth graze his nipple. “No drawing blood,” Tormund reminded him, as he pulled Jon’s face up, cradling it, his thumb lightly brushing against his lip and just looked at him.

Dark eyes darted to the side to avoid his gaze. “You’re no fun.”

“No. Blood,” he growled, not moving. He still tasted iron.

Jon nipped at his thumb, carefully. “Alright.”

“Good boy,” he murmured, slowly pressing his thumb against Jon’s lips. They parted, maybe a little too easily, sucking it in. This time, Jon’s eyes didn’t leave his. They started to glaze over with lust. He could have come right then and there.

His other hand came up toward Jon’s back to make their way lower when he realised that he was exposed again. Tormund made a noise in the back of his throat.

His thumb left Jon’s mouth with an obscene sound. Jon was just looking at him questioningly, eyelids low, pupils blown wide. “What’s wrong?”

Instead of answering, Tormund gripped him and turned them both around, reversing their positions. “You stay there.” He pressed Jon down, tussled hair beautifully spread out over the pillow, and placed his knees on both sides of Jon’s upper body, as close as they would. The angle was awkward, he was too big for this, but it would do. For a while at least. If he felt this in his bones later, he would deal with it. He pitched his voice low. “I’m going to take good care of you.”

Jon’s hips bucked under him, involuntarily, he was sure, seeing the expression on his lover’s face, caught somewhere between lust and mortification. He placed two fingers against Jon’s mouth. “Suck,” he instructed, while reaching for the nightstand with his other hand. Jon obeyed eagerly. Tormund opened the drawer and pulled a half-empty jar of oil from it, placing it within easier reach.

Tormund couldn’t help but notice the string of saliva connecting them as he withdrew his fingers from Jon’s mouth, caressing his face for a second before moving down, again carefully avoiding his scars, while still trying to touch every inch of his body. He bent down to tease his nipples with his mouth, biting down, just a little.

“You’re pretty eager to draw blood yourself.” It could have sounded accusingly, were it not for the fact that it was said between moans, eyelids fluttering.

“Because you like it and I don’t,” Tormund replied, playfully biting his nipple again, to prove his point. Jon moaned louder. Despite that, he didn’t actually bite down hard enough to do so.

He carefully lifted himself up and repositioned himself between Jon’s legs. He quickly palmed Jon’s cock, just to show him where he was, and then let go again. Jon propped himself up on his elbows to shoot an annoyed look at Tormund. “Godsdamned tease,” he spat.

Tormund perked up. “Alright. Do you want me to suck you off or give you a proper fucking? You get _one_. It’s Your choice.”

“Fuck,” Jon said. His voice started to sound husky.

Tormund didn’t move. “What was that?”

“Fuck me,” he repeated, more clearly this time.

“Then lie back down like a good southern lord.” At that, Jon looked at him with an unidentifiable expression on his face, opened his mouth to say something, seemed to judge it not worth the effort, and obediently lay back down.

Tormund opened the jar and generously coated his fingers with oil. “How do you want it?” he asked casually, kneeling between Jon’s legs, moving one of them up for easier access. He brushed Jon’s cock lightly while doing so, and it twitched at the contact, a shudder running through his whole body.

 “Will you just get on with it?” he hissed, hips bucking up.

“Slow it is then.” Tormund grinned, his knuckles brushing against Jon’s hole, as he carefully pressed a finger in. It had been a while since they’d done it like this, so he truly didn’t want to rush. Jon was impatient to a fault, never wanting to prepare enough when it was his turn to receive. Death hadn’t changed that.

A sharp intake of breath followed his breach. “You alright?” He kept his hand as still as humanly possible, the other resting against Jon’s knee, in what he hoped was a calming manner. He looked up.

Jon had half sat up again, his eyes locking with his. “Yeah. Just … yeah. Go on.”

“Use your words,” Tormund instructed, as he wriggled the finger that was inside Jon, testing, probing.

“Been a while,” he added.

“I know.” Tormund carefully removed the finger and Jon hissed again, at the loss of it this time, he suspected. “I’ll use more oil.” He added a generous amount, smearing it against his hole, and his cheeks for good measure, carefully dipping in with one finger again, then adding a second with even more oil.

“No need to go overboard,” Jon joked, his hips bucking against Tormund’s hand again.

“Shut up,” Tormund replied fondly. He started moving his fingers and as he got little reaction, he added a third. As he did, he held them still for a while, getting Jon used to the stretch again. Jon’s breathing calmed. “Alright?”

Jon nodded.

“Want another?”

“Aye. Your cock.”

Tormund didn’t even feign surprise at his impatience. “Right. Obviously.”

“Do it.”

Tormund cautiously removed his fingers, coating his cock with more oil. “So needy, pretty Crow.”

“There is such a thing as too much oil,” Jon said, watching him through heavily lidded eyes.

“Do you want to get fucked or not?” As he said that, Tormund positioned Jon’s leg on his own shoulder, solely for easier access, obviously, not just for the fact that he liked feeling like he could split him in half.

Jon didn’t answer, just screwed his eyes shut, quietly mouthing obscenities at him. Tormund grinned. The “quiet” part was new. He liked it.

“Tell me if I’m going too fast.”

Jon stared at him as if to say, “right.” What he said, instead, was, “Would you stop trying to make sure I’m alright before anything’s even happened yet?” He sounded genuinely annoyed.

“Alright.” Tormund brushed against his hole with his thumb again, before taking himself in hand, positioning himself and carefully, ever so slowly, sheathed himself within. He paused halfway in, when Jon sucked in a shuddering breath.

Tormund sought eye contact, but Jon just looked at him exasperatedly, underlined with an impatient hand motion. He bent forward, taking Jon’s leg, knee still bent over his shoulder, forward with him. He carefully pulled almost completely out again, Jon whined, then he pushed back in again, a little faster, deeper this time. “You’re doing so well,” Tormund praised, soothingly, and Jon shuddered, his breath hitching. He shifted his weight, put a hand halfway between Jon’s arse and back to give Jon better support in this position and planted the other firmly next to his head, fingers in the hair spread out over the pillow. “So pretty,” he mouthed quietly.

Another whine escaped Jon’s throat. “Pull,” he demanded, ground out between his teeth.

“Full sentences, pretty boy.”

“Pull my fucking hair.” Tormund obliged, carefully combing his hands through his curls before he grabbed it at the roots and pulled, hard. Jon groaned, almost immediately presenting his throat. His man’s apple bobbed visibly as he swallowed. Tormund stooped down and licked a broad stroke against it, gnashing his teeth next to it. Jon’s eyelids fluttered, another moan leaving his lips.

He hadn’t moved within him yet, to give Jon more time to get used to being stretched again, without being too obvious about it. Now though, he felt like he would soon burst himself.

He slowly pulled out and moved back when he was only halfway out. Jon moaned again, the sound halfway to a groan, coming from low in his throat, throat still presenting. He stopped for a second to appreciate the sight, and when Jon’s mouth opened, probably to demand he hurry again, he started to properly fuck him, in long, languid motions.

Each time he almost completely pulled out, only to slam back in again with more force. He knew it wasn’t the fuck Jon had demanded – with his words he always demanded fast and hard – but he just looked so pretty when he was so needy, knuckles white, hands fisting the sheets, clearly not knowing what to do with himself.

Even as he thought that, one of Jon’s hand opened around the sheets and moved as if to put it on his own cock. “Don’t,” he said, voice low, raspier than he had anticipated, digging his fingers against Jon’s scalp again, pulling. This time, Jon did groan, his whole body shuddering against him, his cock finally starting to leak pre-come. His hand sank back down against the sheets again, gripping them even tighter if that was possible.

To be truthful, Tormund didn’t know how long he would be able to keep this up, to see Jon writhing beneath him, not allowed to touch himself. He sank deeper into him, bent down and kissed him, tongue slipping immediately past his lips. He noticed when the urge to bite him seemed to overcome Jon again, and tightened the hand still in Jon’s hair, pulling lazily, before untangling it, pulling a few strands of hair with it. Jon winced in pain.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that,” he apologised, mouth moving against Jon’s, before taking his hand, interlacing his fingers with his own, pulling it up with his, holding it down against the pillow, next to his head.

It didn’t take long after that, their fingers intertwined, Jon still bent almost in half, his leg over his shoulder, Tormund rutting against his body, fucking into him, getting faster despite himself, for him to come with a deep, guttural groan inside of Jon. Jon bucked up, against his hips. “Touch me, you arsehole,” he demanded, as Tormund caught his breath.

“So impatient. Someone really should have taught you some manners, little Crow,” Tormund replied, though he did. It took little more than a few loose, open-handed strokes for Jon to messily come all over them. Tormund sat back, soft cock pulling out of Jon.

Jon’s chest was heaving, his lower body full of his own seed.

“Well then,” he gasped, blinking as he looked at Tormund.

“I’m not cleaning this up, if that’s what you’re looking at me for.” He pointed at his own abdomen, equally covered in seed.

Jon started laughing, a welcome sound. “I really needed that,” he said, before sinking back into his pillows. That was almost enough to put up with all his bitching and lack of self-preservation.

“Well, we’re still going to talk about yesterday.” He wasn’t going to let this go.

“Later,” Jon said agreeably, patting the space next to him. “You’re always on me about warmth and yet, you’re all the way over there.”

He had a point. Tormund crawled up his body, pulling the blankets up with him. The unbidden image of tucking him in like he’d done with his daughters when they’d been younger came to mind, but he immediately dismissed that thought. That was _not_ a good train of thought in this particular situation.

When he lay down next to him, blankets carefully spread over him, followed by his leg for good measure, Jon’s hand came to rest on his cheek, lazily combing his beard with his fingers. This was very agreeable, Tormund thought before their lips found each other’s again. If only life could stay like this.

He’d almost fallen back asleep when there was a scratch at the door. Jon moved to get up and Tormund immediately regretted not reacting fast enough to stop him. “Someone has to let Ghost in,” Jon said apologetically as he stepped towards the door.

“You’ve already made enough of a mess, we don’t need blood in bed, too.” Belatedly, Tormund pointed, in what he hoped would be an accusatory manner, at his split lower lip.

Jon shrugged and opened the door. The direwolf did drag in a half-eaten rabbit, but happily flopped down in front of the cold hearth with it.

“See? He’s well-behaved.”

“Much better behaved than you,” Tormund agreed. He held up the blanket. “Come back to bed, Snow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the last chapter basically said, "THIS WILL LEAD TO SEXY BATH TIMES," which I wrote 75% of (and a lot of useless exposition that didn't do anything except fulfill a self-indulgent need about architecture), then hated everything about when I went back to it, scrapped everything, and started over.  
> I'm very sorry about that!


	3. A Late Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!Chapter 1.5
> 
> I wrote this to add a little context as to why Sansa was wandering the castle in Chapter 1. It's told from her POV and is set after this [Sansa/Margaery fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15627492/chapters/36285681), but I think it fits here without further context.  
> You're obviously allowed to check that out too, if you want, but I won't be offended if you don't. ;)

Sansa had decided to take a walk to clear her head when she bumped into Jon’s red-bearded wildling lover. She was on the way back to her chambers when she saw the tall man coming down the corridor, quietly cursing to himself. He wandered the castle at night almost as often as Jon did.

“Good evening, Tormund,” Sansa greeted politely.

 “Bit late for a stroll, isn’t it?” he replied, his eyes widening exponentially as he looked at her. He looked more surprised than anything. She could hardly remember why he had frightened her so when they had first met. Then she quickly reminded herself of the atrocities he had committed, according to the remaining men of the Night’s Watch, and the way he had looked when they had come home from battling Ramsay’s forces. It was hard to reconcile that dirt- and blood-soaked man, smelling of sweat and feces and decay, hardly more than animal, with the man standing in front of her, looking a little lost, clutching a grey set of furs. Jon’s.

That he was now supposedly on their side – Jon’s side, rather – was little comfort while she was out here, alone with him. She quickly glanced at the courtyard. There were two guards standing by a fire who might be within shouting distance, she saw a third one silhouetted further up. This part of the castle was isolated, that was the reason she had chosen it for her walk. She could have cursed herself. There was nothing to do but talk her way out of this.

She drew herself up to her full height. Tormund still towered over her, but she had learned to feel and sound more confident when she used her height to her advantage. Margaery had taught her that. She quickly let the thought go. Show no weakness, she told herself. “I’m the Lady of Winterfell, I can go where and when I please. The same cannot be said for a wildling who chose a tent outside the castle’s walls instead of the room offered to him.”

 “I’m certain you know why I’m here. And I’m also certain you know that I’ve been staying here most nights.” He hugged Jon’s furs closer to himself, like a child might a blanket or a toy. He was smarter than he looked, she gave him that; more observant of human behaviour than she had given him credit for.

She smiled at him, relaxing her stance, just a little. “True. Don't tell Jon I know, though. He thinks he’s so clever, sneaking around with you.” She rolled her eyes as she thought about Jon trying so hard to hide his feelings, and absolutely failing. He had always been a terrible liar. She had known about them since the battle, too, the way Tormund looked at Jon, his heartbreak written obviously on his face, when Rickon’s body had been brought in, the way Jon had looked back at him for just a moment. She had to adjust a lot about the way she thought about her brother that day.

“He thinks you’d judge. Why you would, I don’t know. I don’t understand you Southerners most days.”

She drew in a breath, opened her mouth to reply, that they weren’t Southerners, maybe to explain their customs, then reconsidered. “I understand what it’s like.” More than you’d know. Margaery’s face, her wonderful laugh, was at the front of her mind again. She dismissed the thought, instead concentrating on the task at hand, “Are you looking for him?”

Tormund nodded. “He doesn’t sleep much anymore.”

Sansa gestured towards the furs he was carrying. “And you’re worried he's cold?” Then she thought of something else. She couldn’t lose him, not now. He was the only family, the only _friend_ , she had left. She couldn’t be on her own, not again. Not ever again. “Do _I_ need to worry that he’s going to do something stupid?”

“I wouldn’t say stupid. Not anymore, at least. Reckless, maybe. Whatever the Red Woman did to him, he’s different. Still himself, but … detached. He seems to be more dull. Not boring or stupid,” he hastened to add when maybe what she was thinking was showing on her face, “dull to the world itself. Doesn’t seem to feel cold. Or heat, for that matter. I’m more worried about the cold, though.”

Sansa nodded. The final puzzle piece had clicked into place. That made sense, Jon did seem off under certain circumstances. She just hadn’t been able to put her finger on it yet, had chalked it up to the years he had spent fighting at the Wall, north of the Wall. Now it seemed too obvious. “Should I help you look?” she offered. If nothing else, his worry, his love for Jon was genuine and he didn’t seem to have ulterior motives, none that she could discern at least. None that didn’t line up with what Jon already gave him and what he had already given to the wildlings.

“No, thank you. Just. Do you have any idea where he might be? I already checked the ramparts, I often find him there, that idiot.” There was no malice behind the words, he just looked fond, before he sobered. “Not tonight though.”

“Try the stables or the forge. He used to spend a lot of time there when we were younger. Maybe the baths. They were one of the few places reserved for family that Father overruled Mother.” She bit her lower lip as another memory came unbidden. The way she had taken her cues from Mother when it came to her treatment of … the bastard. She had rarely even thought of him by his name before the years, their lives separated them.

 “Jon told me you weren’t close as children.”

“That’s a nice way to put it. I treated him horribly,” she admitted.

“Yet you still know where he spent his time.”

“He was still my brother.” You didn’t treat him like one. That voice inside her head sounded suspiciously like Arya.

“Maybe you’re being too hard on yourself.” She thought she could detect a smile under the beard. She thought about all that hair scratching her face – and … other places – and suppressed a shudder. Why she had thought of smoothly shaven Southern lords when she imagined her future husband instead of the rough, bearded Northmen that were much more prevalent in her daily life back then made so much more sense these days. Margaery had been soft and warm in all the right places.

She brought herself back to the problem at present. “I’m not, but thank you. If you can’t find him by yourself, please come to my chambers. I’ll be up for at least another hour and I don’t want him to freeze either.”

“I would say I will but I have a hard time finding my way in this place.” He smiled apologetically at her.

“Not a lot of castles where you’re from?” She forced a smile. It didn’t come as hard as she thought it would.

A half-hearted smile was her reward for the effort. They both didn’t seem to operate at their best at this hour, both too preoccupied with their problems. “Not a lot of _houses_ where I’m from,” he said.

She explained the way in what she hoped would be easy to understand for someone not used to castles, which was hard to get her mind around, and bid him good night.

When she reached her chambers, she was alone with her thoughts once again. Sansa went to her desk, picked up some correspondence that had been left to do, and settled by the hearth. The embers were still smouldering, so she added another piece of wood to get the fire going again. The flames suddenly coming back to life made her think of death and resurrection and warm breath, soft lips on her own, the promise of a secret. If there was a tear rolling down her cheek, she didn’t notice it.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! :)
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are always appreciated.


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